


this is the last of me

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M, Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re Jean Valjean, are you not?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Valjean looked down at the broken body he now inhabited, at the hands that were all wrong and the legs that threatened to collapse under his weight at any moment. “Yes,” he said, after some time.</i>
</p>
<p>The night the barricade falls, Valjean wakes up in Javert's body, and finds Javert has woken up in his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jean Valjean dreamed of falling.

His eyes jolted open as panic spread through his body. He had not been dreaming, or at least he was not dreaming now; there was a river below him, inky black and promising death to all who tried to swim it. It was too late to turn the fall into a dive. All he could do was brace himself for the pain he knew was to come. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes as tight as he could.

Crashing through the surface of the water hurt like nothing Valjean had experienced before, even in Toulon. In a split-second it felt like every bone inside of his body had been broken, every bit of skin beaten, and cold, so, so cold. He opened his mouth to scream, only to have the frozen, putrid water rush into his lungs.

Desperately Valjean began kicking and scrambling at the water around him, the surface unseeable  above him. The darkness was impenetrable, and Valjean wondered if the direction he was swimming was even toward the surface. His muscles felt weak, his body old; he was a stronger swimmer than this, at least he had been the last time he had dived nearly to his death. Still, he swam desperately, every fibre in his body aching and threatening to give up at any second.

He reached the surface and cried in pain as he choked on the water still filling his lungs. Valjean was coughing and struggling just to tread water; he was being weighed down by a heavy coat, much heavier than he usually wore. In the distance he could see the vague outline of the bank; he swam toward it, fighting the crashing waves.

When at last he reached the bank, he crawled upon it, staying on all fours as he coughed and vomited the contents of his lungs, still gasping for air. His hands were frozen, his feet numb, and his lungs felt as though they were on fire.

He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand, but immediately put his hand back onto his face. Something was wrong.

There was no beard around his mouth, and his nose — no, no, his hand did not usually feel this way on his face. His fingertips felt the edges of something coarse and thick on his cheeks, and, realizing, Valjean fell back into the mud.

He looked down at his broken body, noting the dark coat he had seen on Javert only a few hours prior.

Valjean stayed like that, sitting back in the mud, struggling to regain his breath as his stomach somersaulted inside of him. He was in Javert’s coat; he was in Javert’s body. Had he ended up in Javert’s body at the very moment Javert began falling? How had he even managed to fall? The parapet was high, making simply falling over it unlikely, even for a man as tall as Javert. That is, unless it hadn’t been an accident — what if Javert had jumped intentionally?

With great difficulty, Valjean was able to stand up, though not without feeling that he’d fall over at any moment. He slowly ascended the steps that led him back to the road, sucking in deep, painful breaths as he made himself push through the agony he felt through his — Javert’s — entire body.

When Valjean reached the street, he grabbed the nearby parapet and bent over, trying to regain his breath before taking a moment to survey his surroundings. He was soon able to identify where he was, and the lack of any hints of life on the street made Valjean think it was likely still that night — the night after the insurgency. The night Valjean had watched Javert walk away from his apartment instead of arresting him. Valjean was used to the streets at this hour, but they had never seemed so still and lifeless. Letting go of the railing, he began making his way back to Rue de l’Homme Armé. He was thankful his apartment was not far; every step caused him agony.

The pain did have the benefit of being distracting; Valjean could not focus on his thoughts, could not dwell on why Javert would jump from that bridge, or why he seemed to be himself, Jean Valjean, but in Javert’s body. He had no plan as to what he would do when he arrived at home, but where else was he to go?

Rounding the street, Valjean noticed a shape standing back from a streetlight outside No. 7. He nearly recoiled, recognizing his own body.

He was leaning against the building, his head tilted up toward the sky above him. Without saying anything, Valjean stopped a few feet from himself, from his body, holding onto the streetlight for support and breathing deeply. He looked up to see his own eyes on his own face look him over from top to bottom. The face was familiar, but the expression was totally unrecognizable. Valjean was startled his face was even capable of contorting into such a shape.

After looking him over, Valjean watched his body look back up toward the sky. “So I am in Hell,” he heard himself mutter, his voice full of resignation.

“Hell?” Valjean inquired after a moment.

His body looked back at him. “You’re Jean Valjean, are you not?”

Valjean looked down at the broken body he now inhabited, at the hands that were all wrong and the legs that threatened to collapse under his weight at any moment. “Yes,” he said, after some time.

Valjean heard a laugh and started; it came from his body, but Valjean was certain he had never in his life made a noise like that. “Yes, yes,” he heard a strange variation of his own voice mutter, “how appropriate.”

“Javert?” Valjean asked tentatively.

Javert didn’t reply, but looked back up at the night sky above them. After letting out a long sigh, he said, more to himself more than to Valjean, “this is to be my punishment, then. I suppose it is deserved.”

“Punishment?”

“I thought it would be obvious,” Javert continued, his tone oddly conversational and polite, “I’ve died, and now I’m in Hell, trapped in the Convict-Saint’s body, and the Convict-Saint is trapped in my body exactly as it was at the moment of my death. I’m unsure who is worse off here.”

“You haven’t died.”

“I have,” Javert replied, his tone still light and weirdly devoid of emotion, “I drowned.”

“You didn’t,” Valjean insisted. “I don’t know what has happened any more than you, but the first thing I remember is falling. I didn’t — that is, you didn’t die. I swam to the bank.”

“I don’t remember falling,” Javert admitted slowly. He let out a long sigh, looking back up at the sky, seemingly unwilling to look too hard at his body in its current state: inhabited by Jean Valjean and barely capable of standing. “So if I’m not dead and this is not Hell, what will you do?”

“What will I do?”

Javert looked at Valjean sharply as if to fix him with an exasperated stare, before quickly looking back up. “Will you kill me? Will you go to the police and claim to have been mistaken about Jean Valjean being alive? Will you grant yourself a pardon?”

“Javert,” Valjean tried.

“Do what you must!” Javert barked, his voice echoing off the tall buildings in the darkness. “It matters little. And I thought the world had fallen to chaos when I saw you at the barricade! You, you who led me away from there and spared my life, you who had power over me and let me go — well, what will you do now? That power is even more complete. You could kill me, you could kill me and then if this — when you’re you again — you won’t have to worry about —”

“Javert,” Valjean repeated, nearly shouting.

Javert sighed. “Yes?”

“I am not going to do any of that,” Valjean said slowly, “just as I trust you not to harm me.”

Javert let out a short, loud laugh, the noise startling Valjean. It was all wrong from his throat. “Trust? You shouldn’t trust me.”

“What will you do?”

Javert didn’t respond.

“I can’t be at my home, not like this,” Valjean muttered, before turning to Javert, “and I would rather you were not here either. Should my daughter —”

“Your daughter?” Javert asked blankly.

“You did not see her?”

“No. I woke up in a bed — your bed, I assume — and was confused about where I was. I came outside for air, and that is when I realized where I was. And then I found you.”

Valjean breathed a sigh of relief. “We cannot stay here,” he repeated, “not until this is over.”

“And what are you proposing we do? If you think I am about to invite — oh, don’t — Valjean,” Javert stammered, before sighing loudly. “Fine. You may stay at my apartment for tonight.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said quietly. He let go of the streetlight, slowly straightening, wincing as he stood without the support of the streetlight.

“It is not far from here,” Javert added hurriedly.

Valjean nodded, and they set off from Rue de l’Homme Armé.

It was still dark, the streets still blanketed in a sort of peaceful silence that spoke nothing of what had happened only hours before.

Several times while they were walking, Valjean opened his mouth to ask Javert something — why he had jumped, what he planned on doing now, why he had left Valjean’s apartment in the first place — but decided against it. He was still in overwhelming pain and eagerly awaited dry clothing and somewhere he could rest. Javert, too, seemed to want to say something to Valjean, but thought better of it. More than once, Valjean caught Javert looking at him with — what? It was not an expression he imagined Javert used often, and it seemed twisted and wrong on Valjean’s face. Valjean didn’t like to dwell on that face — it made this surreal horror that was apparently reality even more terrifying.

So, they walked in silence.

Javert’s apartment turned out to be closer to Valjean’s than he expected; he took a moment to be nervous about this, about how close he had been to Javert whenever he was in his current lodgings, before remembering that if Javert hadn’t arrested him already, he probably didn’t plan on it.

When they arrived, Javert patted down the pockets on the coat he was wearing, before fixing Valjean with a glare. “Do you have my key?”

Valjean began digging through the pockets of Javert’s coat before finding the key, taking it out with a sigh, relieved it had not been washed away in the river and handing it to Javert.

Javert led them both through the door of the building and then up the stairs to his apartment with a kind of quiet deftness that suggested Javert often came home very late at night.

Javert’s lodgings were smaller than Valjean would have expected; he had only a single room, sparsely furnished but immaculate. Javert lit a single candle before taking off his — Valjean’s — coat, folding it and setting it over a chair. He then began rifling through his wardrobe, pulling out several thin blankets, a towel, and two nightshirts. He tossed the towel and a nightshirt at Valjean with a simple, “here.”

The nightshirt was thin and the towel scratchy, but Valjean had been wet and cold for what felt like hours. He nodded politely at Javert before looking around himself awkwardly.

“Just close your eyes while you do it,” Javert snapped, “I woke up in your nightshirt and needed to change before I went outside. I closed my eyes.”

Valjean set the nightshirt down gently on Javert’s bed before closing his eyes and beginning to undo the buttons of Javert’s coat.

“I will close my eyes too,” Javert said, “do not open them until we have both finished. Let me know when you are done.”

Valjean undressed as quickly as he could considering the aching he felt over his entire body, all the while trying not to think about whose body and whose clothing he was pulling off himself, still damp and sticking to his skin. He let the clothing pool at his feet before blindly reaching out and finding the towel, drying himself off as best he could. He set the towel down on the floor, unsure of what to do with it in the darkness, before grabbing the nightshirt and pulling it over his head.

“Are you finished yet?” Javert asked, but his tone was lined more with exhaustion than annoyance.

“Yes,” Valjean replied, his eyes still closed.

“Me too. You may open your eyes.”

Valjean opened his eyes to see Javert spreading out the spare blankets on the floor, next to his bed. Valjean simply stood there, trying to look at anything that wasn’t his own body with someone else inside of it.

“You can have my bed,” Javert said, finally, shifting on the floor under one of the blankets he had spread out.

“It’s your bed,” Valjean replied blankly.

Javert looked at him weakly. “You’re,” he stammered, waving his hands as though it might help him find a word. “Just sleep, will you?”

Sensing Javert’s discomfort and admittedly exhausted, Valjean thought it might be more polite to obey. He climbed into bed as Javert blew out the candle, the room now completely dark. He shifted under Javert’s blankets, trying to get comfortable; the bed was softer than he would have thought, and it felt indescribably soothing after walking around while injured for a half hour.

“Javert,” Valjean said slowly, his eyes open and staring into the darkness below Javert’s ceiling, “when you fell into the Seine — did you jump?”

Javert let out a long, pained sigh.

“You could have died,” Valjean reprimanded.

“I was trying to.”

“Why?”

“Leave it alone, Valjean,” Javert snapped. “Go to sleep.”

“If this hasn’t resolved itself when we wake up — you are still in my body,” Valjean tried. "If you were to —”

“I am not going to try to kill myself again,” Javert blurted, “so long as you stop pestering me with these questions. Both of us need sleep. You are old, I am injured. There is nothing about our predicament that can’t be solved in the morning.”

Valjean opened his mouth as if to protest, but thought better of it. “Good night Javert,” he said instead, turning toward the wall and praying this would be over when he next awoke.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean Valjean awoke slowly, sighing as he clutched the blankets closer to himself. His body ached, but the warmth of the bed was soothing. In his half-awake state, he tried to remember what had made him so sore. There had been the insurrection, of course; he was strong, but not as young as the students, and that was in addition to the strain resulting from carrying Marius through the sewers.

The soreness explained why he had dreamed of nearly drowning. Even dreaming about being in Javert's body in particular made sense when Valjean thought about it; Valjean had felt as though he was drowning after his life had been saved by the bishop, and Valjean thought he recognized a similar expression on Javert's face in the carriage. Javert, it seemed to Valjean, was going through exactly what Valjean himself had gone through seventeen years ago. Valjean was surely nothing compared to the bishop and he cursed himself for making the comparison, but, all the same, he hoped he had at least made Javert think about his actions, past and future. He found himself wondering what Javert did with himself after leaving from his apartment.

He tried to recall the dream while it was still vivid in his memory. He had dreamed he was falling, he had dreamed he was drowning. He could almost smell the river from his bed. He had dreamed he had become Javert, and Javert had become him.

Valjean rolled over on his bed and barely managed to stifle a sharp cry when he felt his elbow hit the wall. His eyes shot open -- his bed was not against a wall -- and when he recognized the bed, the bed he had fallen asleep in while he was dreaming, he scrambled out from the blankets, sitting upright on the bed.

He looked down at his body, once again realizing in terror that he was not dreaming, and the body he was inhabiting was not his own. His legs stuck out from underneath his nightshirt; thinner than his own, with darker hair and dark red bruises covering much of the skin. His body ached from the sudden movement, and he brought his hands to tug at his hair almost by instinct, before nearly jumping again when he felt Javert's long, thick hair in place of his own. He closed his eyes, but his rapid breathing sounded all wrong in his ears -- Javert's rapid breathing -- and he opened them again, trying to look at anything that wasn't his current body.

He took a quick inventory of the room and realized Javert was no longer there. Another wave of panic ran through him. Javert, as far as Valjean could remember, had said he would not do anything to harm Valjean. He had never known Javert to lie, but their present situation was surely abnormal enough that he might have been tempted. Everything in his body felt wrong; he was uncomfortable, a sense of wrongness flowing through his veins. He wanted to break out of his skin, wanted to run, wanted to tear himself apart. He let himself slide back under the blankets as he tried to steady his breathing.

He could not simply wait here, could not simply stay wrapped up in Javert's blankets while Cosette and Toussaint were alone in a home Javert knew about. He would have to find Javert. He braced himself as he pushed the blankets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He tested each leg before rising, gingerly applying pressure as he stood, using the table at Javert's bedside for support. He began looking through Javert's wardrobe and pulling out clothing, trying his hardest not to think about invading Javert's privacy in such a way or how strange the action was to begin with. The clothes bundled under one arm, he walked carefully over to Javert's washstand and pulled Javert's nightshirt over his head.

Before he could think to shut his eyes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He tried to tear his eyes away but found he couldn't; he found himself comparing the shape and quality of Javert’s skin to his own, Javert’s slender frame in contrast to his thicker, shorter one. He hadn’t seen another man this bare since he had been in prison.

He tried to shake the thought from his head as he wet a washcloth, slowly running it across Javert's body. The river had cleaned off most of the filth from the sewers, but the dirty water from the river still clung to his skin. Even if he had any desire to wash as quickly and methodically as he knew he should have, it would have been difficult; every fibre of his being still ached.

When he was at last clean, Valjean dressed himself in Javert's clothing, still wincing in pain at the movements required. Then, in a fit of guilt for making himself so comfortable in Javert's home, he fixed the blankets on the bed and tidied the washstand. Sore and out of breath, Valjean sat down on one of the two chairs Javert had cluttered around a small table, trying to regain his breath before he set out from the apartment. He put his elbows on the table, letting his head rest in his hands as he considered what he could do to ensure Cosette was safe.

He let his thoughts absorb him, sitting there in Javert's apartment and tugging at Javert's hair as though it might contain the answer he was looking for, until he heard the door to the apartment open behind him. He turned around quickly, then grimaced at the pain this caused his neck.

Javert was standing in the door frame, balancing two mugs of coffee and what looked like a loaf of bread, dressed in the clothes he had left Valjean's apartment in the night before. "You’re finally awake," he said simply, "I was beginning to think you might never wake up." His voice was steady and neutral.

"What time is it?"

"A little after noon. I grew tired of waiting for you to wake and went for a walk."

Javert strode into the room, setting the bread and one of the coffees down in front of Valjean -- without really offering it to him -- and sat down in the other chair.

"I didn't mean to sleep so late," Valjean tried, staring at the coffee as an alternative to looking at Javert.

"It doesn't matter," Javert replied. His voice was strangely devoid of any emotion; he sounded, if anything, simply tired and bored.

Valjean kept his gaze low; he had a million questions to ask Javert and yet none came to his mind. They sat in silence for a few moments before Javert snapped, "and drink your coffee before it gets cold."

Valjean looked at the coffee Javert set in front of him nervously, bringing it slowly to his lips without drinking.

"I haven't done anything to it," Javert said, his voice thick with annoyance. "If I'd wanted to kill you I could have done so while you were asleep."

Valjean took a moment to glance at Javert before remembering it was his face he was looking at before looking back down at his hands and taking a small, slow sip of the coffee. He took a moment to focus on the hot, bitter feel of the coffee in his mouth before swallowing.

"Do you have any idea what we're going to do?" Valjean asked, still avoiding Javert's eyes.

"No," Javert replied simply.

"We cannot simply hide in your apartment until this ends. I have my daughter, you have your work --"

"I am no longer with the police."

Valjean faltered. "What did you say?"

"I am no longer with the police," Javert repeated.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean,” Javert muttered to himself, before looking at Valjean and continuing, "I resigned. I found myself no longer fit for duty, and so I resigned."

“Why?”

Javert looked at him. “It’s none of your concern,” he said. He didn’t seem angry, but rather exhausted, as though he lacked even the will to snap at Valjean.

“Javert,” Valjean tried, remembering a conversation from nearly a decade ago when Javert had also spoken of resigning. But he wasn’t Monsieur Madeleine anymore; he was hardly even the same Jean Valjean, and suspected the same was true of Javert. “When did this happen?” He asked instead.

“Last night. This morning. Does it matter? Leave it be, Valjean.”

Valjean fell silent, looking down again and taking a long sip of his coffee. “What will we do?”

“Amazingly, I haven’t come up with an answer since you last asked,” Javert retorted.

Valjean did not respond, but heard Javert make an annoyed noise before continuing, “do you not have a daughter at home?”

“What would I say to her?” Valjean replied, still staring down at his quickly emptying mug of coffee.

“She’s likely to be concerned, Valjean, you need to speak to her.”

Valjean looked up again. “Why does it concern you?”

Javert squeezed his eyes shut. “It might stop this constant moping. If I have to suffer through much more of it, I might reconsider how much my remaining years are still worth to me.”

“You would have to accompany me,” Valjean said, “she would want to talk to me -- that is --”

“I’m not going to hurt her, Valjean. I already told you I cannot tolerate you being any more miserable than you already are.”

“She doesn’t know my name,” Valjean continued, “or anything of my past.”

Javert let out a long sigh. “Then you have a lot to inform me of before we arrive,” he said, pushing the bread he had bought toward Valjean. "Eat something, then we will go."

  
  


“Papa!” Cosette yelled as Javert and Valjean entered the small apartment; Valjean watched in horror as she wrapped her arms around Javert, then flinch back when Javert, instead of returning the hug, simply kept his arms suspended in mid-air while shooting a desperate look to Valjean.

“Cosette,” Javert tried, and Valjean noted the forced softness in his voice.

“Who is your friend, papa?”

“I am Javert,” Valjean barely managed to choke out.

Cosette turned to Valjean, and he felt his heart drop as she looked at him with such unfamiliarity. “Well, Monsieur Javert,” Cosette cheered, “come inside! I will make us tea.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said, but Cosette had already left for the next room.

Javert took off his coat -- Valjean’s coat -- and hung it up, before leaning in close to Valjean and saying, low and quiet, “this is absurd. How long, do you think, before she realizes I am not you?”

Valjean didn’t respond, but followed Cosette to the other room, sitting down at the table.

Javert followed, sitting at the table in silence as Cosette hurried about, filling the table with pastries and, shortly after, tea.

“Cosette,” Javert tried, looking across the table to where Cosette was still mixing more sugar into her tea.

“Yes, papa?”

“That boy -- Marius. He was injured last night during the insurrection. He is very ill, and he is staying with his grandfather.”

Cosette dropped her spoon, letting it clatter on the table. “Papa! You knew about him? How injured is he? Papa, how --”

“Cosette,” Valjean said, before catching himself. He kicked Javert underneath the table.

“Yes, I knew,” Javert said slowly, “he will most likely recover. Javert and I --”

“I was passing through the street when he arrived at his grandfather’s,” Valjean interrupted, “and I mentioned it to your father.”

“Oh, papa!” Cosette cried, before jumping from her chair to wrap her arms again around Javert. “I was so worried, papa! For you and for Marius, you were not here when I awoke and I heard a noise at night, I thought you had come home but I woke up and you were gone! I was so worried, but you are safe! And so is my Marius!”

She stepped back before examining Javert. “You don’t look well, papa.”

“I am old,” Javert responded simply, “and Monsieur Javert and I have some things we need to do today.”

“But you should rest! Can it not wait until tomorrow?”

“No,” Valjean and Javert responded at once.

Cosette frowned, then sat back down in her chair.

“I’m sorry, Cosette,” Valjean said quietly. “After your father and I leave, why don’t you have Toussaint take you to see Marius?”

She turned toward him with an odd expression on her face, and rested her chin in her hands. She sighed, looking down at the table, before turning back to Javert.

“How long do you think you’ll be out today, papa?”

“Perhaps for several days,” Valjean interjected, flinching at the suspicious look Cosette gave him. “We are unsure.”

“Hopefully not very long,” Javert added.

Cosette frowned, and Valjean looked down at the table, wishing he could reach out to touch Cosette reassuringly, or hug her, or even offer a few words of support. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment before sighing and looking up at Javert.

“We should be off soon,” he reminded him.

“Yes,” Javert said, and Valjean noticed the relief wash over his face as he stood quickly from the table.

“Excuse us, mademoiselle,” Valjean added, before standing, tucking his chair in behind him and nodding at Javert to follow him.

“I need a few things, but then I will come and say goodbye,” Javert said to her, each word awkward and carefully enunciated. He turned toward Valjean and nodded, and Valjean led him toward his bedroom.

They entered, and Javert closed the door behind them before leaning against it, while Valjean began collecting clothing from around the room.

“She seems used to not asking questions,” Javert accused as he eyed Valjean.

Valjean tossed the shirt he had been holding onto his bed before turning to Javert and letting his arms fall to his side. “And what would you have me do?” He began, his voice thick with exhaustion and defeat, “explain to her what I am? She would hate me.”

Javert was still looking at him, his eyebrows raised, but he said nothing. The look was infuriating.

Valjean grabbed a few more shirts, stuffing them into a bag. “You don’t know what she’s been through,” Valjean added, fighting to keep his voice quiet enough that they would not be overheard.

“Something worse than a criminal for a father, one who has been lying to her for ten years?” Javert asked quietly.

Valjean clenched his fists, taking a slow deep breath, before picking up the bag and walking toward the door. “Say goodbye to her, politely,” he warned as he opened the door, again fighting to keep his voice steady.

Javert followed him silently, closing the door behind them.

Cosette was waiting for them at the door to the apartment, her expression grim. She looked at the bag still held in Valjean’s hand before giving him the same suspicious look she had earlier, and Valjean felt his stomach sink.

“I am glad you are safe, papa,” she said, turning toward Javert, “and I hope you are able to return soon.” She hugged him again, tighter this time, and Valjean watched as Javert put his arms around her slowly and awkwardly, his face contorted into a pained grimace.

“Me as well,” he replied, once he had pulled back from her. “Be well, Cosette.”

“Goodbye, papa,” she said, before turning toward Valjean, “and it was a pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Javert.”

“And you, mademoiselle,” Valjean replied.

Valjean and Javert left the apartment as Cosette watched from the door, until they were down the stairs and had left the building.

  
  


They passed the next few hours in silence, Valjean not trusting himself to say anything to Javert and Javert seeming to be going out of his way to avoid Valjean, a feat proving difficult in Javert’s small apartment. After they had eaten supper, Valjean began reading while Javert mended his coat where it had been damaged.

Valjean had brought the book from the apartment, and though his eyes were tracing the lines, he wasn’t absorbing any of the information. Still, he kept tracing the lines and turning the pages, occasionally glancing over the top of his book to watch Javert stitch buttons back onto his coat.

After some time -- what felt like hours to Valjean, the sun had almost set and it was getting too dark to read, even with a candle lit next to him -- Javert sighed, giving up on his sewing before turning toward Valjean.

“I only intended to say that if you truly care for her, as you clearly do, you would tell her the truth,” he said.

Valjean put his book down on the table. “Do not tell me how to raise my daughter,” he said, his voice low. “You know nothing of the life she’s had, of her childhood before I found her. You wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t need this.”

Javert looked back down at the coat in his hands before slowly beginning to stitch a button back on. Valjean, in turn, picked his book back up, opening it -- somewhat at random, even if he had the right page he would not have known -- and continued skimming the words.

“She seems fond of you,” Javert said slowly, still looking down at his hands.

Valjean looked at him, but did not reply. He watched him try to knot the thread -- unsuccessfully, his hands were shaking and clumsy -- before Valjean turned back to his book.

After another few minutes, Javert let out an annoyed sigh and tossed the coat away from him, onto the bed. “I quit,” he announced.

Wordlessly, Valjean set his book down again before retrieving Javert’s coat and grabbing the needle where Javert had left it on the table. He began reattaching the button, and understood why Javert had had trouble -- Javert’s hands were larger, but his fingers slimmer than Valjean’s. He sewed it quickly, before knotting it and tossing it back onto the bed.

Valjean heard Javert inhale as though he would say something, but he stayed silent. Valjean leaned back in the chair, stretching his neck.

“You’re the one wearing the coat,” Javert stated after some time.

“I’m aware.”

“Listen to me,” Javert started, “Valjean, I only meant --”

“It matters little what you meant, Javert,” Valjean interrupted, before letting out a long sigh. “We should sleep soon, it’s quite dark.”

“You may have my bed again,” Javert replied quickly.

Valjean said nothing, nor did he even as he changed into Javert’s nightclothes and got settled in Javert’s bed, relieved to be resting his still aching body.

“Good night,” Javert tried, but Valjean remained silent.

 


End file.
